Angel Island

Julia received her last. She sat with Angela in the curve of her arm,

one hand caressing the drooped wings. It was like holding a little wild

bird. With every breeze, Angela's wings opened. And always, hands, feet,

hair, feathers fluttered with some temperamental unrest.

The boys tiring of the waves, came scrambling in their direction.

Half-way up the beach, they too came upon the boulder in the path. It

was too high and smooth for them to climb, but they immediately set

themselves to do it. Peterkin pulled himself half-way up, only

immediately to fall back. junior stood for an instant imitatively

reaching up with his baby hands, then abandoning the attempt waddled off

after a big butterfly. Honey-Boy slipped and slid to the ground, but he

was up in an instant and at it again.

Angela fluttered with baby-violence. Julia opened her arms. The child

leaped from her lap, started half-running, half-flying, caught a seaward

going breeze, sailed to the top of the boulder. She balanced herself

there, gazing triumphantly down on Billy-Boy who, flat on his stomach,

red in the face, his black eyes bulging out of his head, still pulled

and tugged and strained.

"Honey-Boy's tried to climb that rock every day for three months," Lulu

boasted proudly. "He'll do it some day. I never saw such persistence. If

he gets a thing into his head, I can't do anything with him."

"Angela starts to climb it occasionally," Peachy said. "But, of course,

I always stop her. I'm afraid she'll hurt her feet."

Above the rock stretched the bough of a big pine. As she contemplated

it, a look of wonder grew in Angela's eyes, of question, of uncertainty.

Suddenly it became resolution. She spread her wings, bounded into the

air, fluttered upwards, and alighted squarely on the bough.

"Oh, Angela!" Peachy called anxiously. Then, joyously, "Look at my baby.

She'll be flying as high as we did in a few years. Oh, how I love to

think of that!"

She laughed in glee - and the others laughed with her. They continued to

watch Angela's antics, their faces growing more and more gay. Julia

alone did not smile; but she watched the exhibition none the less

steadily.

Three years had brought some changes to the women of Angel Island; and

for the most part they were devastating changes. They were still

wingless. They wore long trailing garments that concealed their feet.

These garments differed in color and decoration, but they were alike in

one detail-floating, wing-like draperies hung from the shoulders.

Chiquita had grown so large as to be almost unwieldy. But her tropical

coloring retained its vividness, retained its breath-taking quality of

picturesqueness, retained its alluring languor. She sat now holding a

huge fan. Indeed, since the day that Honey had piled the fans on the

beach, Chiquita had never been without one in her hand. Scarlet, the

scarlet of her lost pinions, seemed to be her color. Her gown was

scarlet.